


Mirror, Mirror

by tiger_in_the_flightdeck



Series: Kronos Verse [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Bisexual John, Blow Jobs, Closeted John, Coming Out, Cross-Temporal Masturbation, Group Sex, Homophobia, Intercrural Sex, Love Confessions, M/M, Magical Mcguffin, Masturbation, Mind Palace, Mind Sex, Morning Sex, Multiple Adaptations, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Abuse, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining Sherlock, Public Hand Jobs, Public Sex, Rated for future smut, Secret Relationship, Self-cest, Sexual Fantasy, Sherlock's Mind Palace, Time Travel, Voyeurism, Work In Progress, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2014-05-03
Packaged: 2018-01-18 14:35:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1432069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_in_the_flightdeck/pseuds/tiger_in_the_flightdeck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While investigating a potential murder involving an ancient statue, Holmes slips and falls.<br/>While investigating a potential murder involving an ancient statue, Sherlock is pushed and falls.<br/>Somewhere, a Greek Time God is laughing to himself as Holmes and Watson confront their 21st Century counterparts, and find their relationship lacking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Look At Yourself And Laugh

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not even going to pretend that this makes any scientific sense.  
> Every other part of this series will be smutty, but this is the intro.

“It’s lovely.”

Watson nodded in agreement as he and Holmes examined the statue. It was nearly as tall as a man, and made of carved marble, with bronze accents. The figure held a large bronze scythe, with its robes pooled around its feet. Holmes looked at Watson out of the corner of his eye, and smirked. “Stop picturing me in that.”

With a snort, Watson nudged Holmes with his hip. “I wasn’t.” Sidling closer, he rested a hand on the small of his colleague’s back. “Now, that lovely drapery and circlet Apollo is wearing on the other hand…” he murmured against the side of his head. He turned Holmes’ attention to another statue, a tall young man, nude save for a laurel crown and a wrap over his shoulders. The statue was lithe and smooth, with long limbs and curls. In one hand, he held a cluster of hyacinths. “I can certainly picture you in that.”

The men snickered quietly together until the official police inspectors arrived to give them the scant facts from the case.

“The body’s been taken away already.” Holmes complained, circling the first statue. The scythe was tacky with drying blood.

“Not by us, though.” Inspector Jones consulted his moleskin with pursed lips, then nodded when he scanned down. “The museum director contact us when he found the pool of blood around the statue. No body was found.”

“Ah! Perhap this might actually be interesting. A murder without a body. Delightful!” Holmes rubbed his hands together and shed his coat, handing it off to Watson. “Pardon me while I satisfy myself in regards to this scythe.” Making another circuit of the statue, Holmes grabbed it by the shoulders and clambered up its back. Watson cringed and took a half step forward, hand outstretched to help steady him.

“See anything of interest?” Watson asked. He set Holmes’ coat aside and hovered nearby to catch him in case he slipped and fell. It wouldn’t be the first time he had taken a topple like that, and it likely wouldn’t be the last. “For god’s sake, Holmes. Don’t perch like that!”

Holmes had straddled the statue’s shoulders, leaning over the head to reach for scythe. “It’s very dull.” he commented.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes, that it doesn’t live up to your usual standard of cases.” Jones muttered, rolling his eyes. “I thought that you would be intrigued by the lack of a body, but I’m ever so sorry that it is dull.”

Brow furrowing in confusion, Holmes straightened. “I… The scythe, Jones. The blade is dull. Not sharp. There’s no way that it could have punctured through a person’s flesh, unless they were forcibly pushed onto it.” Drumming his fingers onto the statue’s head, Holmes frowned. “It is too high for someone to have picked up the victim, and thrust them home. Jones, go and speak to the director. Find the specifications for this statue. The exact dimensions, and weight. How it is fixed in place.”

The inspector turned on his heel and trotted from the room, muttering to himself under his breath. Holmes chuckled to himself and began to climb down from his perch. Trying to avoid the puddle of blood, he placed his foot awkwardly, and took a graceless spill to the floor. One of his hands shot out to try to stop himself, and scraped down the leg of the statue.

“Oh. _Oh_ , that hurt.” he hissed, snatching his hand back up, holding himself by the wrist. His palm was red and raw, bleeding around the base of his thumb.

Watson rushed to Holmes’ side, his face going pale under his tan. “How bad is it?” Plucking a handkerchief from the cuff of his shirt, he pressed it into Holmes’ palm to stop the light bleeding. Besides the scrape, Holmes had torn three of his fingernails down to the quick, and bruised the inside of his wrist in his landing.

With a deep frown of concern, Watson removed the cloth to check how severe the scrape was. “Silly lad,” he crooned lovingly, and brought the hand up to his lips to kiss the middle of his palm. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

Looking out through the thick fringe of his lashes, Holmes showed the smudge of a bruise on the inside of his wrist just below his thumb.

“Oh, my. This is what you get for being reckless.” Watson tutted and pressed his lips to the mark. “Anywhere else?” He glanced around to make sure the constables from the Yard were elsewhere. Not all of them could be trusted to suffer temporary blindness when it came to their indecency.

With a thoughtful hum, Holmes pointed the edge of his jaw. “The bruise isn’t starting to show yet, I’m sure.”

“No, there’s no petechiae forming yet.” Watson stroked the pad of his thumb over Holmes’ jaw, following with his lips. “Better safe, than sorry.” He walked his fingertips down the long, slender neck to look for further damage. “Vertebrae injuries are very serious.” He kissed a line from Holmes’ ear down to his collarbone. “As are clavicle injuries.” he insisted, nosing around to leave a smattering of kisses.

“Watson… I feel lightheaded.”

Chuckling, Watson straightened and grinned. “Wait until we get home, my love.” When he looked at Holmes, his eyes snapped open wide, and he gripped him by the shoulders.

Holmes’ face was ashen, his eyes rolling back into his head. Only the whites showed below his lashes and he convulsed where he stood. “Holmes! Holmes, listen to me, I’m going to lay you down.” Watson cradled him carefully, and guided him to the floor. It wasn’t a seizure like any he had ever seen before. Holmes’ limbs were limp and loose, his only movement the tremor from head to heel. Watson held his hand tightly, and called for help.

Reaching out a hand to steady himself, he touched the foot of the statue.

The world went white.

 

 

 

 

“That thing is fucking hideous.”

John burrowed deeper into his coat and scowled at the world in general. His hair was still wet, and he was certain there were shampoo suds behind his ear. Sherlock had roused him from his bath to drag him to a crime scene. He hadn’t even had time to rinse properly before a towel was being thrown at him, and he was left wondering when the hell the lock on the bathroom door had stopped working.

“Kronos, god of time.” Sherlock mumbled, reading the placard in front of the display. “I imagine that’s what the scythe is for. Cutting down time.” he shrugged and paced a slow circle around the figure. “I saw a larger statue of this in Greece last year.”

“Last year?” John snapped, shedding his coat and scrubbing his hands back through his hair.

Sherlock looked up at the figure’s face, and tilted his head to the side with an avid expression on his face. “Yes, I had a bit of free time, and went to look at some of the temples.”

“Mm, yeah, I can see how that would be more important than sending a text, or an email. Fucking smoke signal…”

Frowning, Sherlock turned to look at John. “What? Oh. Yes, I’m a terrible person. Utterly horrible. I gave myself a day to relax, between working to dismantle an empire.” Bowing from the waist, Sherlock let his hair fall around his face. “This awful human being apologises _again_.”

“Sod off,” John growled, flexing his hands at his sides.

“There are only so many times I can say that I’m sorry, John. I’m sorry I left. I’m sorry I stayed away so long. I’m sorry I came back. For god’s sake, I’m sorry I interrupted your bath!” With each word, Sherlock took a step closer to John until he was invading his personal space even more than usual. John took a step back to give himself air.

_Sorry I came back._

John’s face flushed red, then drained white. There was a dull roar in his ears, and his knuckles popped as he formed a fist, trying to feel for a gun that he no longer wore on his thigh. “Don’t you dare say that.” he bit out.

“Oh, so now you don’t want me to apologise? Make up your bloody mind, John!” On mad impulse, Sherlock poked John in the chest with two fingers. He had aimed for his heart, but missed by an inch, and caught the edge of his entry wound.

John let out a wordless yell and grabbed Sherlock by the front of his jacket, and shook him hard. “No, I don’t want you to apologise, you absolute dick! Because it doesn’t mean anything!” His left shoulder screamed in protest as he shoved Sherlock away from him.

Sherlock staggered back, arms flailing. His eyes widened and he reached for John, catching the cuff of his jumper.

Lunging forward, John reached out to grab at Sherlock’s wrist, but didn’t catch him in time to stop their tumble to the floor. John landed on his knees, and Sherlock sprawled out on his side. There was a sickening crack when Sherlock’s cheek and jaw struck the leg of the statue.

“God. Christ, Sherlock, I’m sorry.” John slid forward on his knees the rest of the way to Sherlock’s side and gently took his face in his hands. “Let me see.”

Bottom lip jutting out in a pout, Sherlock closed his eyes and tilted his head up to the light for John to see. His mouth was bleeding from the corner, trickling down his jaw. “Hurts,” he sulked, holding his head. “I think I knocked a tooth loose.”

John touched Sherlock’s jaw and sighed. “I’m sorry, I feel like a tit.”

“Are a tit.” Sherlock sounded like a petulant child. _More_ like a petulant child. “Do… do you hear that?” he pressed his hands to his ears and looked around the room.

The large gallery flashed white, and the statue beside them hummed. The noise grew louder and higher until it was a droning whine and both men clapped their hands to their ears. Between one heartbeat and the next, it went silent.

“Holmes, my love, just stay still. Hush, wee lad.” Watson cradled Holmes’ head, and sighed with relief when his convulsions stopped just as abruptly as they had begun. Groaning, Holmes turned to his side and drew his knees to his chest while panting softly.

“Where the actual fuck did you come from?” John demanded, his hand hovering at the small of his back where his handgun was tucked.

Watson whirled and crouched protectively over Holmes as he glared down the strangely dressed man.

“He’s armed,” Holmes croaked, pushing himself into a seated position. He panted for breath and held his head in his hands, expecting it to fall off at the slightest touch. “Be careful, dearest.”

Standing, Watson moved away from Holmes, trying to draw the man’s attention away from him. “You’re a soldier,” he observed, recognising the signs as they had been drilled into his head by Holmes. “As am I. Let us just talk this over calmly, there’s no need to reach for your weapon.”

“John, don’t be an idiot. He can disarm you in a heartbeat.” Sherlock rose from the floor and held his hand to his face.

“I’m not going to be threatened by some cosplaying spaz in a moustache!” John shouted, finding some small comfort in his temper.

Watson looked from the short, angry soldier to the younger man beside him. “Did he hit you?” he asked softly, holding a hand out for him. “It’s all right. I’m a doctor. You can trust me.”

“It was an accident.” Sherlock insisted, rubbing his jaw.

John didn’t know what was happening, but before he could draw the breath to tell Sherlock that that was not the smartest thing to say, his wrist was being grabbed in an expert hold. He was yanked off balance and pulled to the other man.

Watson dug his thumbnail into the inside of John’s wrist and twisted his arm behind his back. A knee slammed into the back of John’s thigh, and they both crashed to the floor with Watson pinning him down. His shin was braced across John’s back, and his free hand held the back of his neck to keep him from thrashing.

“John!”

“Watson!”

Both cries came simultaneously.

Watson looked up at the young man, with his soft curls and his slanting, icy grey eyes. John stared in wonder at thin lips and a hawkish nose.

Realisation slowly dawned.

“Shit.”

  



	2. Self Loathing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Various Holmeses and Watsons make it back to Baker Street with minimal fuss. To make up for the smooth transition, John gets drunk. And angry. And Watson takes control, because that's what Watsons do.

“Stop squirming, lad.”

Sherlock whined and tilted his chin up so Watson could get a better look at the cut on his lip. “Stings…” 

Watson clucked his tongue and held up the medicated swab. “I haven’t even touched you yet.” 

Pursing his lips- and pretending that it didn’t make him want to wince in pain- Sherlock rolled a shoulder. “Still stings.” 

They had made it back to 221b without any problems. Sherlock had stammered out vague excuses to Lestrade and shuffled the two strange men into the back of a cab. The hardest part was trying to convince Watson that John had not intentionally hurt Sherlock, and that he shouldn’t dislocate his shoulder. Still weak on his feet, Holmes had leaned on Watson the entire way, his hand tucked into the curve of his elbow. John had been silent and pale. 

Now, Holmes was curled up in Sherlock’s chair, holding his head in his hands while Watson patched Sherlock up. Watson positioned himself so he could keep a close eye on Holmes even while he was tending to Sherlock’s injury. John had disappeared into the kitchen to fix himself a drink so stiff he could pound nails with it. 

“I’m going to be quick, lad, so just hold still.” The only person that didn’t seem to be breaking down was Watson. The moment they had gotten into the flat, he had ushered Sherlock onto the sofa and demanded a first aid kit be brought to him. “You’ll have a bruise, but it will heal up fine. No need for a plaster.” 

Sherlock touched the corner of his lip lightly. “What is going on?” he asked softly. His breath was hitching in his throat, and he rocked a few inches forward and back. 

“Damned good question, that.” John drawled from the kitchen doorway. In his hand he held a half empty glass of whiskey. “How is any of this fucking possible?” He weaved slightly where he stood and dragged his hand back through his hair. 

Watson packed away the medical supplies and put the kit aside. He sat on the coffee table and braced his elbows on his knees. “The last thing I remember was Holmes collapsing. He fell and hurt his hand, then started to convulse.” 

Nodding, Sherlock drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs. “I fell as well. There was a dull roar, then the room went white. Then the two of you were there. Wh… where are you from?” 

“I’m sure you mean ‘when’ are we from.” Watson murmured and drummed his nails on the coffee table. “What year is this?” 

“It’s 2014.” John took another gulp of his drink and dropped down into his chair. “What year is it where you were?” 

Holmes and Watson shared a speaking glance. “It was early August, in 1895.” Watson stated, rubbed one hand in circles over the knuckles of the other. “We were investigating an incident-”

“At the museum.” Sherlock finished for him. He wrapped his arms around his waist, sucking in slow, deep breaths through his nose. “The Kronos statue.” 

Holmes rose on unsteady legs from the chair and moved over to the sofa. “There are some obvious similarities,” he mused aloud, gently touching Sherlock on one impossibly high cheekbone.  Sherlock’s eyes fluttered briefly before he leaned into the touch. With a small smile, Holmes moved to his curls, brushing them back from his forehead and tucking some behind one ear. His thumb traced below a pale blue eye, and both men tilted their heads to the side, mirroring one another. 

Beside them, Watson cleared his throat. “Looks a bit like you when we first met. But with curls, and the nose is a bit less…” he gestured at his own feature, then swooped his hand out to mimic Holmes’ aquiline nose. “You could easily pass for his older brother. It’s incredible.” Watson reached out as well, and slid a fingertip near the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, following the line of his cupid’s bow. 

For the first time since they had left the museum, Sherlock stopped shaking. He relaxed under the attention, practically melting into the soft affection. “You’re me?” he turned hooded eyes on Holmes. “Where you’re from, I mean. You’re Sherlock Holmes. And you,” he furrowed a brow at Watson.

“Dr. John Watson,” he gave a half bow from where he was sitting and drew his hand back so slowly it was almost a caress. “I’d say that it’s a pleasure to meet you, but it seems a bit silly. I can probably tell you where your birth marks are located, and how you fancy your tea in the morning.” 

“Lots of milk, and enough sugar to leave a sludge in the cup.” John muttered into his glass before taking another deep swallow. 

“With a single piece of toast.” Watson finished, giving John a sharp look. “Why do we look nothing alike?” he asked after a moment, standing from the table. 

Watson was nearly as tall as Sherlock, with rich chestnut hair, and broad shoulders. Everything about him was different from John; his voice was far deeper, his skin was darker, his lips were fuller below a neatly trimmed salt and pepper moustache. 

Lips curled up in a sneer, John rose as well, weaving where he stood. “I dunno. Maybe I’m not you. Maybe I’m my own fucking person, and not some reincarnation of a ponce in a waistcoat, wearing a bloody newsboy cap.” Around his glass, John pointed at Watson, coming dangerously close to poking him in the chest. 

“Don’t,” Watson warned, drawing himself to his full height, nearly a head taller than John. 

“Or what? You’ll start petting me?” he snickered, and drained the rest of his drink and dropping the empty glass on the floor beside his chair. It toppled over and rolled a few feet away. 

“John, you’re drunk.” Sherlock sighed, the tension returning to his shoulders as he spoke. “You should go to bed.” 

“No, we are going to figure this out, so they can go home. We’re going to just stay right here until we can suss out what happened, and how they got here, and why the fuck they are rubbing you like a you’re a damned cat.” John blinked slowly and shook his head to try to clear it. The room shifted and twisted, and he kept losing count of how many people were with him. 

Watson sighed and took John by the elbow. He grabbed him by the back of his jeans with his free hand and frog marched him over to the sofa and shoved him down into the seat next to Sherlock. “I will suffer through Holmes’ temper and behaviour, but I do not need to put up with it from you. We have been ripped from our home, and we have no idea how we will get back, or even if we can. I understand that you are upset, but you are being insufferable.” 

John looked between the three men, his lips pulled down in a deep frown of confusion when he saw the look of awe on Sherlock’s face. Sherlock was gazing up at Watson, his eyes glittering under his lashes. Reeling back like he had been slapped, John stared hard at Sherlock. In all the time he had known him, he had never seen that expression wash over his features. Sherlock’s face softened with warmth, and one corner of his mouth quirked up in a crooked smile. Through his alcohol haze, John felt a sharp twist behind his ribs at the look. Seeing it being directed at this stranger- this imposter- hurt in an utterly inexplicable way. 

“I…” John shook his head and ran his hands back through his hair, scratching at his scalp. “I think I drank too much.” He scrubbed his hand over his lips before heaving himself back up. “I really should go to bed before I do something stupid. Stupider. More stupid. Something.” He waved his hand, slashing his fingers through the air to cut off Sherlock’s protests. “I’m hoping when I wake up, this’ll have been a fever dream.” Still shaking his head, John marched up the steps to his room. A moment later, they heard a slam of his door. 


	3. Home Sweet Somewhat Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson can perform in any situation.

A warm band of sunlight slipped over Watson’s eyes, rousing him in the morning. He curled himself around the sharp figure in his arms, and kissed the back of his neck. 

After John had taken himself away, Sherlock had begun to shut down. It was obvious to both Holmes and Watson that without John to keep him centered, he was becoming overwhelmed with the entire situation. The tremor returned to his fingers, and his breath caught in his throat when he tried to speak. Crooning a soft lullaby against his curls, Watson had guided him off of the sofa and led him through the kitchen to tuck him into bed. With a dash of brandy and a kiss to his forehead, Watson watched over him until he fell asleep. 

The living room floor was not the most comfortable place to sleep, but they had both suffered through far worse over the years. They had tried to stretch out on the sofa, but couldn’t fit on it together. Instead, they made a cozy nest in front of the fireplace with the pillows and blankets they had found. 

“Are you awake?” Watson asked quietly, stroking his fingertips around Holmes’ navel. 

Holmes hummed in reply and pressed back. “You remember what happened?” he asked sleepily, and reached a hand back to hold Watson’s hip. 

“Mm. I do, yes. We’re not at home. But we’re in 221b. But not our 221b.” Watson groaned and pressed closer, burrowing his face into the back of Holmes’ neck. “It hurts my head to think about.” To comfort himself, both of them, he slid his hand lower and smoothed his palms over Holmes’ thighs. 

Holmes snorted and squeezed Watson’s hip. “How can you possibly be aroused at a time like this?” 

Watson’s chuckle was lost in the sound of skin on skin when Holmes drew back his hand to swat him on the rump. “Because you are safe. We are both in one piece, and you are held against me.” He brushed a kiss over the shell of Holmes’ ear, the edge of his moustache tickling him. “It’s morning, and you are completely bare under this blanket. In truth, I only need two or three of those factors to be come aroused, my love.” 

“Four, if you haven’t eaten that day.” Holmes muttered and parted his legs with a long, drawn out sigh. He slipped his hand back between his thighs until he took Watson in his hold. “Come here, and be done with it so I can go back to sleep.” 

“I may swoon. It is a good thing I’m already outstretched. I would hit my head, I am so weak in the knees with your passion.” 

Holmes tightened his thighs and rocked his hips back, letting out a breathy moan. His nails bit into the firm muscle of Watson’s arse, driving him to thrust forward. His free hand moved down, feeling the tip of Watson’s prick just below his bollocks. It was already slick, and Holmes darted his fingers over the head. “Still feeling weak?” he murmured.

Watson rested a hand on Holmes’ shoulder, giving him a gentle push until he rolled over to his front. “Positively limp, obviously.” He braced himself up on outstretched arms, rolling his hips down. To silence his groans, Watson bit down between Holmes’ shoulderblades. 

Dragging his nails against the carpet, Holmes squirmed until he could bring his knees under himself, lifting his backside. “They could catch us.” he breathed. 

Watson bit down harder, and tangled one of his hands into Holmes’ soft hair. “Then you had best be quiet, wee lad.” he warned. Supporting his weight on one elbow, he reached his other hand under Holmes’ hips. His tongue twirled around the bite mark as his hand closed around Holmes’ slim staff. He sucked a small mark below the nape of Holmes’ neck, and twisted his wrist. 

Rather than trust himself to keep silent, Holmes bit down on the cushion. His eyes shone bright with unshed tears of pleasure. Pinned down, he could do nothing but squeeze his thighs together to try to milk Watson’s cockstand. He squirmed and shuddered, his length trembling in Watson’s hand before spilling his seed out onto the carpet. There was a soft tearing sound as threads from the cushion gave up under the strength of his teeth. 

“Let go,” Watson ordered, rising up onto his knees. He pulled the cushion from Holmes mouth and tucked it under his head when he rolled him over. “Open,” His fingers laced into Holmes’ silky hair again, tilting his head back. He took himself in hand, and used the head of his cock paint his pre ejaculate over Holmes’ lips. 

Always eager to please, and to earn the praise that came with it, Holmes closed his mouth around Watson’s cock, and suckled hard. His tongue lapped and darted, peeking under the tight foreskin to sip up what was pulsing out for him. 

“Take-” Watson didn’t need to finish his command before Holmes used his long, deft fingers to roll his sensitive bollocks. Two fingers slid up the underside of his sac, to rub in firm circles at the space directly behind them. 

Watson pushed his fist against his mouth to muffle his sharp gasp, and scraped his nails over Holmes’ scalp. His thighs trembled and his hips moved in stuttered, shallow thrusts. Even in Holmes’ grip, his bollocks drew snug to his body before he let out a deep groan. 

Holmes tried to swallow as fast as his mouth was being filled, but semen still trickled from the corners of his mouth and down his cheeks. His eyes watered and he gasped for air through his nose before he had to pull off, coughing. Turned to his side, Holmes covered his mouth and drew his knees to his chest. 

A large callused palm stroked over Holmes’ back. Watson held his hand between his shoulderblades to feel his breathing. It was ragged, but the choking eased on its own. “Take slow, deep breaths, little love.” Watson wrapped the blanket around Holmes’ shaking shoulders, and massaged his arms. “Did you gag, or did I hurt something?” 

Fluttering his fingers to wave off Watson’s concern, Holmes shook his head. “Couldn’t swallow fast enough.” he rasped out, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist. “Lying on my back, it went up into my sinuses. Not only can I taste nothing but semen, that’s all I can smell now, as well.” Pulling a face, he sat up and licked at the cooling seed on the sides of his mouth. 

Watson chuckled quietly and bundled the blanket around Holmes’ slender frame. He took his face in his hands and kissed him deeply, running his tongue between his lips. “There,” he murmured, kissing a line down Holmes’ neck and over his chest until he found the smears of Holmes’ semen on his skin. “We both have the taste in our mouths.” 

Holmes mumbled sleepy nonsense and staggered to his feet. He only made it a few paces before collapsing in John’s chair, tucking his knees up around his chin. “What do you think the chances of finding anything edible here would be? I don’t imagine they have a housekeeper, judging by the state of the room.” 

“I’ll see what I can find. This version of Baker Street has a kitchen in it. There seems to be a rather large icebox.” Watson ran his hand through Holmes’ hair, brushing it up off his face before kissing his forehead. “Rest, I’ll fix you some breakfast.” 

Watson padded into the kitchen, still naked, and looked around. The chaos of chemical equipment on the table was wonderfully familiar. With a fond smile, he examined the experiment that this world’s Sherlock Holmes was working on. The chicken scratch shorthand scribbled out on a notepad told him that the young man was doing a work up on decomposition rates of plant life. Chuckling, Watson put the pages back where he found them and set out to find something to make a meal. 

The human foot in the icebox gave him pause for a moment before he reached around it to find a package of bacon wrapped in butcher’s paper. Watson gave it an experimental sniff and set it aside. “This thing appears to be electric.” he called back into the kitchen, and earned a grunt in reply. “Everything in here appears to be electric.” Watson muttered after staring at the range for a long while. He turned the dial that he had expected would ignite the gas, but instead a metal coil began to glow red. Testing the heat by passing his hand above the coil, he set down a cast iron skillet that had been sitting inside the oven. 

Most of the appliances were straightforward, and Watson found himself disappointed. The kettle worked the same as theirs had more than a hundred years earlier. It was still filled with water from a tap, and set to boil. “Tesla would be appalled.” The electric kettle even had simple to read instructions printed on the side in clear lettering. 

Whistling the tune from the concert that he and Holmes had attended the night before they had been dragged out of their time, Watson set the bacon frying. “Would you like eggs, my dear?” 

Another grunt, but this one seemed to be in approval of the idea, so Watson took the carton of eggs from the icebox and put them out on the counter. 

It all felt so familiar, but it was also unmistakably not their home. 


	4. Making Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock builds a room for Watson in his Mind Palace

Despite the stress of the night before, Sherlock rose not long after dawn. He stayed curled in his bed, staring at the wall as he tried to resign himself to what had happened. And it was undeniable. He could smell the warm, spicy cologne that the man, Watson, had been wearing. It clung to his fingers, a memento of how the gentleman had held him close to soothe him in his panic. Sherlock’s cheeks flushed when he remembered how he had gripped his waistcoat and refused to let go until he had fallen asleep. His last memory was of a moustache bristling across his forehead, and a murmured goodnight.

Bringing his hands to his face, Sherlock breathed in the scent. The aroma was warm and earthy rich. Sherlock ran his tongue over his top lip to try to pick the different threads apart. His nostrils flared and he sucked in a shaking breath. _Sandalwood. Cinnamon. Heat._ he thought, sinking into his Mind Palace to catalogue the scents. _An oil, as opposed to a spray. Anointed lightly to his pulse points in the morning, allowing the heat of his blood to warm and distribute it._

While lost in his own head, Sherlock didn’t realise that he was palming himself through his pyjama bottoms.

  


In his head, he was building Watson up into something more than a feverish memory. He started simply, by placing the man in the centre of an empty room, and stitching together memories and inferences. The room he was creating him in was like an echo of John’s, but the more he learned of him, just from his scent, the more subtly the room changed. Oak paneling. Fishing poles strung along one wall. The chairs shifted from being shabby and threadbare, to deep red leather wingback chairs. Through the room, strong exotic tobacco teased at Sherlock’s nose.

“You smoke?” Sherlock leaned in, and inhaled the smoke. It was stronger than he was used to. Coughing into his fist, he ducked his head.

“Ships’ yes,” Watson chuckled and gave Sherlock a crooked grin. “I like this room. It feels… proper.”

Sherlock gasped softly, and squeezed himself through the flannel of his bottoms.

“Thank you. I can’t take all the credit. My mind took what it knew of you, and created something it thought you would find suitable.” Sherlock followed Watson with his eyes as he paced a circle around him. He felt pinned under his gaze, and his breath quickened when he felt a hand on the small of his back.

“So you see me as masculine, then. Strong. But safe, and comforting.”

Hot breath tickled at his ear, and Sherlock closed his eyes. Even in his Mind Palace, he felt himself getting hard. “I- yes. I do.”

“Your Watson… Apologies. Your John. Does he have a room like this?” Hands slipped up his spine, and Sherlock wondered when he had become naked. It didn’t happen often in his Palace. When he masturbated, he was a cool, casual observer to his fantasies. He rarely participated. However, finding himself standing in that warm, welcoming room, Sherlock felt completely at ease in nothing but his curls.

“He does. It’s decorated with different styles, but he has his own room. Would you like to see?” He turned and followed Watson with his eyes, licking his lips to find that with each step he was losing another article of clothing. “This is supposition.” Sherlock murmured. He reached out and touched a broad shoulder, finding the skin soft and the muscles firm. “Even touching you last night, I have no way of knowing what you look like without clothes.”

_The buttons of his pyjamas were thumbed open, and Sherlock slipped his hand inside._

Watson chuckled low in his throat. He stroked the pad of his thumb over Sherlock’s full lower lip, and slipped it briefly into his mouth when Sherlock gasped in response. “Perhaps you do. Perhaps you are remembering things from my Holmes.” He took up Sherlock’s hands, and kissed his knuckles. “Show me your John’s room.”

Sherlock left the door open to the new room, and wondered what he might have erased to make room for it. Hand in hand, they walked down the hall. Heavy wooden doors led to individual rooms; some held people while others held experiences. Facts and figures were stored elsewhere, for easier access. “This is John’s.” He rocked from his heels to his toes and back again, lightly touching the frame of an elaborate door at the head of the hall. Where some of the other doors creaked and groaned their protest at being opened, John’s door barely whispered as it swung back on well oiled hinges.

“Do you like it?” Sherlock hugged and arm around his waist, pressing himself close to Watson’s side.

“It’s lovely, wee lad.”

The room was decorated in greens and reds, with blanket-covered chairs and tea stained tables. A shelf of medical equipment stood along one wall, and a bank of laboratory counters stood under a window. A merry fire burned in the hearth. The room didn’t stay still. It constantly shifted between shabby comfort and clinical neatness. It was Sherlock’s favourite place to relax.

“It’s John.”

“Does he know that he has such a place of honour in your Mind?”

Sherlock shook his head and stared hard at the ratty carpet.

Strong fingers gripped him by the chin, and lifted his gaze. “We’re not the smartest of men, Sherlock. Next to you, we’re rather dim. Sometimes we need to be shown what’s what.”

Sherlock lowered his head again, but this time it was to catch one of those fingers in his lips. He licked down it, tasting the sharp tobacco and salt of his skin. “You’ll help me, won’t you?”

“Always,” Watson stepped forward, bringing their bodies together.

Sherlock found himself stifling a giggle. Watson was nearly as tall as he was. In his Mind, he always had to stoop to kiss John. Now, he simply tipped his head and allowed his lips to be captured in a deep kiss.

_Digging his nails into his pillow, Sherlock tightened his fist, and twisted his wrist._

Watson slid his palms from Sherlock’s jaw, down his chest, and over his waist. When he reached back to cup his round, full arse, he grunted with the slight effort it took to lift him off the ground. Sherlock clung to Watson’s shoulders, and wrapped his legs around his waist.

“Have you made love with your John here?”

Sherlock locked his ankles just above Watson’s hips, and tightened his arms around his neck. “Frequently,” he confessed, his breathing rough and ragged. His head fell back, exposing the long line of his throat. Sherlock cried out when the invitation was taken, and Watson bit down just below his ear.

“While he’s in the same room with you, in the flesh?” Watson reached behind his head to touch Sherlock’s hands, encouraging him to loosen his grip and lean back. Shaking his head, Sherlock hugged him closer. Tutting, Watson tapped his knuckles in reprimand. “Let go,”

Sherlock laced his fingers at Watson’s neck, and let the man take all of his weight. Between them, his cock was standing flushed and rigid, bobbing with each beat of his heart. “God, yes. When he’s standing there, talking of some meaningless sporting event, or complaining about the weather… We’re in here.”

The delight of this being his mind, was that tedious details were able to be smoothed away. Sherlock could close his eyes, twitch his nose, and be fully prepared. No need to fumble with bottles, or spend ages on stretching. Between one blink and the next, Sherlock was ready. His rump and thighs were slick and warm, and he almost panted for it.

“Your control is incredible.” Watson praised, and Sherlock shuddered against him. Watson’s voice was growing deeper, more husky each time he spoke. It was different from what Sherlock remembered hearing from him the night before. He wondered idly where his mind was pulling the sounds of his moans from.

Holding onto Watson’s neck with one hand, Sherlock reached the other back and wrapped his long fingers around Watson’s thick cock. “Jesus…” He squeezed it, darting his thumb around the tip to smear the bead of precome. His mouth fell slack when he pressed it between the mounds of his arse. Sherlock bore down and let out a soft cry as Watson widened his stance and thrust up.

“Take-” Watson twirled his tongue against Sherlock’s earlobe before biting down. “Take it all in, Sherlock.” He braced one of his hands against Sherlock’s tailbone, holding him still while he rocked up into him.

_Sherlock pressed his face into his pillow to muffle his moans. Despite his attempts, he couldn’t silence himself completely. Different names tumbled from his lips as his hand flew over his length._

“You’re doing so well for me.” Watson gripped Sherlock’s arse cheeks in his hands, holding them spread while guiding Sherlock into his orgasm. “You’re very close. You just need to relax now. Relax, Sherlock, and come for me.”

  


Sherlock’s toes curled, and his hips bucked off of the mattress. His prick jumped in his hand as it pulsed thick semen over his chest, shooting up to strike his jaw and cheek. Gasping, he covered the head with his free hand to catch the rest that was spilling out. His legs trembled under the covers, and he choked for air before sagging boneless against his pillows.

After he caught his breath, his stomach rumbled for attention when the scent of frying bacon wafted under his door.


	5. Green Carnation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson finally finds something that he can't take in his stride, and Holmes finally places his finger on what has changed so much in this time period.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is going to need a few notes.   
> There is a reference in this chapter to the opening of the Canon story The Three Students.  
> "It was in the year ’95 that a combination of events, into which I need not enter, caused Mr. Sherlock Holmes and myself to spend some weeks in one of our great university towns..." This story takes place the same time that Wilde was being ousted as homosexual. It led to countless men to flee London rather than risk arrest. It is never explain WHY Holmes and Watson were out of the city, but the 'into which I need not enter' heavily implies that it is connected to this situation.

“I wonder if he is usually so vocal.” Holmes murmured. He was wrapped up in one of the blankets from their nest, and had padded over to Watson’s side to watch him cook breakfast. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Watson looked at his companion and smirked. “I can see the gears turning in that wonderful mind of yours, and they are steering you into devious directions, my love.” He chuckled and hand fed him a piece of sliced strawberry. 

The tip of his tongue peeked out of his mouth to stroke over his lips. Holmes swallowed the fruit and smiled, his grey eyes glittering. “You’ve never turned your nose up at my deviance before.” he pointed out and snaked a thin arm around Watson to steal a strip of bacon. 

Both men looked up when Sherlock padded out of his bedroom, bundled up in a tan dressing gown. His cheeks, already warm and pink, turned crimson when he looked at Watson. Seeing him standing at the stove, completely naked with tiny red marks on his chest from spattering grease, Sherlock turned on his heel so gracelessly that he smacked into the refrigerator. 

Watson looked down at himself and had the good manners to flush and run into the other room. When he came back he had put on his union suit, but had left the buttons of the charcoal grey garment open. The top hung down behind him, and as he walked into the kitchen, he looped the sleeves around his waist, tucking them in. 

Both Holmes and Sherlock stared at the broad expanse of his exposed chest and back while he went back to cooking. One openly and with barely concealed pride, the other with confusion and shy desire. 

“Apologies, Sherlock.” Watson poured a mug of tea, adding a large dollop of cream and some honey. He pressed it into Sherlock’s hands, wrapping his fingers around it until he held it of his own accord. “I had forgotten I wasn’t in my own home. My own Baker Street.” His calm demeanor wavered for a moment, and Watson sighed before turning back to the stove. 

“You generally sleep in the nude?” 

Holmes chuckled after accepting his own mug of tea. “Even on the coldest nights.” he wrinkled his nose and took a sip. 

“Then you need to deal with him complaining about his shoulder being sore.” Sherlock finished for him, and the pair shared a soft smile. 

“Come, Sherlock.” His lips curled up at the name, and he shook himself before continuing. “Sit down with me.” Holmes gripped the blanket in one hand, and set the mug down so he could curl his hand around Sherlock’s elbow. He tugged and drew Sherlock into the living room, stepping carefully to avoid the stain he had left on the carpet. 

“You are taking this all remarkably in stride.” Sherlock observed, curling up on the sofa. 

“Watson is here.” Holmes murmured, sitting beside his counterpart. “As always, that does wonders for my mental state. If he wasn’t… It doesn’t bear thinking of.” Waving off the thought, Holmes rubbed at his chest through the blanket. “I’m certain if things don’t right themselves soon, I’ll begin to break down. Until then, as long as I keep him within earshot, I should be in one piece.” 

Sherlock blushed again and looked down at his hands. 

“You’re envious.” Holmes watched Sherlock’s face with his head tilted to the side. The expression was almost avian, and Sherlock had seen it reflected in countless windows and mirrors over the years. 

“No. Yes. I don’t know.” Sherlock darted a glance out the door to the stairs that led up to John’s bedroom. 

“Ah, I see.” Holmes steepled his fingers below his chin. After a moment, he reached out and pinched Sherlock’s chin between finger and thumb. “You need to do a better job of masking, my friend.” He moved his hand to stroke over the wrinkle between Sherlock’s brows before tracing the creases beside his eyes. “I know that it is hard, but you will protect yourself better.” Holmes nodded to the kitchen where Watson was humming again. “The Cold, Analytical Mask he calls it.”

_ “You… machine!”  _

Sherlock nodded and cleared his throat. “I thought I had it perfected. It seems I need practice. Why do you bring it up?” 

“You are in love with your John.” Holmes stated plainly, without inflection. 

Opening his mouth to deny it, Sherlock sighed and let his head drop to the back of the sofa. “Is it really that obvious?” 

“Not to him, apparently.” Holmes sat cross legged and leaned back with Sherlock, their shoulders pressed together. “You’re not much younger than I am. Nor is your John much younger than my Watson. But it’s clear you haven’t been together as long. He hasn’t learned to read the tiny signs you give him.” Holmes’ hand slipped out of his blanket wrap and patted Sherlock on the knee. “You’re still training him. Give him time.” 

  
  


His brain was filled with bees. John was certain. Angry bees. Possibly wasps, but that wouldn’t account for the scent of honey in his nose. 

Cracking an eyelid, John rolled over and held his head. Along with the sweet smell of honey, bacon drifted up the stairs. Hungover and a little hard, John pushed himself up. After a moment’s confusion, he realised he had fallen asleep with his head at the foot of the bed and his feet up on his pillow. 

John swore under his breath, his tongue feeling like cotton as he jammed his arms clumsily into his ratty terrycloth. The first step downstairs was daunting, but John gripped the banister and hobbled down. 

“Mm, I told you fanning the pan up the stairs would work.” A high, musical voice lilted from the kitchen with a soft laugh. It was answered by a deep chuckle, and Sherlock’s familiar, quiet giggle. 

“Oh, Christ.” John leaned on the wall as he took the sight in. Sherlock was still in his pyjamas, and looked rumpled. He was sitting at the kitchen table, picking apart a piece of toast. His eyes were hooded and sleepy as he nibbled on his breakfast. But it was the two men behind him that had the colour draining from John’s face. 

They both seemed so at home, grinning at each other, treating the kitchen like it was theirs. John opened his mouth to mutter something, but a cup of tea was shoved into his hands before he could. 

“No sugar,” Watson smiled down at him. “Plenty of milk, a dash of brandy. And there’s a plate keeping warm in the oven for you.” 

John braced himself on one of the chairs, lowering himself down with a wince as it felt like his head was going to topple off. “How did you know how to work the oven?” 

Arching a brow, Watson set the plate down in front of John and took a seat as well. “I truly hope that history books have some sort of accuracy in this age. Do you really think that in our time, we banged rocks together to get fire, or something equally ridiculous? I am a surgeon, John. I should hope I can figure out that turning the dial on an appliance will start it.” Watson took a sip of his tea, licking a droplet from his moustache. 

“You’re going to keep insulting me in that insufferably polite tone, aren’t you?” John asked, snapping a bite of bacon and following it with a piece of toast. 

“It’s highly likely, yes.” Watson cut up his eggs and sprinkled them with salt before tasting them. Closing his eyes, he swallowed them with a pleased groan. “Unless I am tired, in which case it will be considerably less polite. Would you like some more toast, John?” 

John paused with his fork partway to his mouth, and turned to look at Sherlock. “I’m an absolute dick, aren’t I?”

“Quite often, yes.” 

  
  
  


After breakfast, and after John had finished a litre of water and taken his first pain pill in six months, the men decided that their best course of action was to return to the scene to try to figure out what had happened. 

The  first  course of action, however, was finding decent clothing for Watson. 

“Because you don’t fit into anything in this flat, and your clothing is hardly in the current style.” Holmes muttered after Watson demanded for the third time to know why he needed to purchase anything. 

Holmes had disappeared into Sherlock’s room with him, and emerged half an hour later in their host’s clothes. The way Watson dragged his eyes along Holmes’ lithe form made him run his tongue over his bottom lip with a smirk. Even John stumbled to a halt before fleeing the room when he caught sight of Holmes in a pair of crisp black slacks, and rolling up the cuffs of a deep burgundy button up. To make up for the nearly three inches of extra height he had on Sherlock, Holmes was wearing the slacks low on his slim hips, leaving the shirt untucked. 

“You look like you should be preening your feathers, Peacock.” Watson tutted, his eyes warm with affection. He bit his lip and stepped forward, thumbing open the top button of the shirt. “But your neck is too long to wear this all the way up without your tie.” He spread the collar open to expose the sharp planes of Holmes’ clavicles and the deep hollow of his throat. After a quick glance around to make sure the other men were still off changing, Watson dropped a kiss to Holmes’ chest. “I love you.” 

“I love you, my Watson.” Holmes cupped his cheek with a slender hand and kissed him quickly. “We’ll have this all sorted out soon enough, and we can return home.” 

With their foreheads together, they let the quiet moment together last until they heard footsteps coming from the other room. By the time John came in, they had moved apart with practiced ease. Holmes flipped through a magazine while Watson frowned at a thread of grey hair in the mirror. 

“We’re all set to go?” He tossed his keys in the air before tucking them into his coat pocket. 

Combing his fingers back through his hair to sweep it from his face, Watson nodded. “We are, yes.” 

Out on the street, Holmes’ hand immediately tucked into Watson’s elbow as they walked. They made it nearly three blocks before either of them noticed that no other men were walking together like this. Holmes frowned, his brows coming together in a deep vee over his hawkish nose. His grey eyes darted everywhere, looking carefully at the clothing of each of the men they passed. 

No subtly displayed tokens or flowers. No pins or strategically placed ribbons. Not a single man was quietly, carefully displaying their inversion. A cold tendril of dread curled in Holmes’ stomach. 

Mere months before the incident, he and Watson had been forced to flee London, rather than risk exposure. A discreet message in the middle of the night, and they had hastily packed a trunk and boarded the first train out of the city to Cambridge. From their private rooms near the University, they had read in the papers as Wilde’s court case unfolded. 

A note. A single scrap of paper with sloppy scribbling left in plain sight, and everything had crashed down around them. Their only solace had been the hope that it would change in the future. Now, Holmes withdrew his hand and tucked it into the pockets of his slacks. His shoulders hunched up around his ears and he glared at the ground as they walked. 

Sherlock brought them to a posh boutique, and frowned at the expression on Holmes’ face. It had come from nowhere. Nothing had changed between the flat and the shop that he had noticed. He was struck with the concern that this Holmes was better than him. Eyes shivering from side to side he tried to find something that Holmes might have observed that he missed. Nothing. 

“We don’t have any money with us. Well, I have a couple of half sovereigns. And Watson has a guinea tucked into the lining of his hat that he thinks I don’t know about.” Holmes mumbled, pressing the toe of his shoe against the parquet flooring. He looked very much like the young man he truly was. 

“We were paid very well for our last case. I have fair amount of money in the bank. I also have my credit card on me. Erm, a credit card… It’s…”

“A way of keeping track of your line of credit at various stores?” Holmes glanced up. “It’s easier to think of it like that, I imagine.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted when Watson stepped out of the change stall. His mouth snapped shut fast enough that he put the tip of his tongue at risk. 

“I haven’t worn denim since I was in Australia.” Watson tugged at the dark blue jeans he was wearing and cringed. They were snug, but not tight, with a slight flare at the cuff to fit over his boots. Even though they couldn’t be seen, he felt ridiculous in the obscenely small pair of underclothes that John had picked out for him. The wretched things didn’t even cover his thighs, and the waistband rode well below his navel. They barely concealed his backside, and just thinking of how exposed he was had him flushing straight to his hairline. 

Sherlock twirled his finger, and Watson turned in a slow circle. With his jeans, Watson had chosen a soft tan button up and a chocolate check waistcoat. When he saw the faint outline of the briefs cutting across one of Watson’s arse cheeks as he turned, Sherlock nodded. 

“He was naked this morning. Why is he blushing now?” He continued to twirl his finger, and Watson spun, with an increasingly put upon look on his face as he went. 

“He was home, then.” Holmes explained. He folded his hands over his knee and leaned back in his seat to watch the display. “Now he’s in public. He will get used to it in an hour or so.” 

“He can hear you.” Watson muttered flatly and came to a halt. He pulled his hat on over his hair and scowled. “Carry on your clucking. I’ll be with John.” Turning on his heel, Watson’s boots rang out on the floor as he strode away. 

“What do you think of this?” John held up a pale blue jumper next to Watson’s face, then grimaced. Soon they launched into a discussion about colour palettes, and skin tones. 

When they were paying for the purchases, Holmes watched with open fascination at how the barcodes were scanned and the prices appeared on the screen. Watson made a faint choking sound in the back of his throat when the final total flashed. The colour drained from his face and he swallowed thickly. 

“Relax, it’s not that much.” Sherlock snickered while he handed over a credit card with Mycroft’s name on it. 

John snorted and rolled his eyes. “One of those pairs of pants cost the same amount as three of my jumpers and a pair of my jeans combined.” he muttered. 

With a small smile, Watson took the bags. “Holmes once spent an entire client fee on a ring.” he confided, earning a surprised laugh from John. 

Back out on the street, the sun was rising higher in the sky, warming the air. Watson turned his face up to the sky with his eyes closed, enjoying the heat. Holmes watched him with an affectionate smile tucked into the corner of his lips. 

“It stinks a bit less.” Watson inhaled deeply. 

“Indoor plumbing,” John mumbled. “It’s a wonder.” 

Watson closed his eyes for a moment, as if asking for strength. “We have a lovely bathtub in 221b. Don’t we, Holmes?” When there was no reply, Watson turned around. “Holmes, what’s the matter?” 

Holmes was frozen in place on the pavement, staring at something across the street. Watson set the bags down and dashed to his side. “My love? What is it?” he whispered, searching Holmes’ face. 

“Look,” Holmes nodded across the street. “Just… look, Watson.” Watson frowned, searching the crowd until he saw what had caught Holmes’ attention. 

Two men, one in a dark blue suit, the other in jeans and a short sleeved shirt were laughing together. One grinned and ran his fingers through his hair, toying with the strands. His companion caught his hand and brought it to his lips. Their laughter petered off into soft giggles until the man in the suit rocked up on his toes, catching the other’s lips with his own. The kiss was returned deeply, hands fisting in the lapels of his jacket, tugging them roughly. 

“They’re just…” Holmes’ eyes shone bright with unshed tears. He bit the knuckles of his index finger and sucked in a deep breath. “In the middle of the street, Watson. There’s a police officer not half a block away.” Pressing his hand to his mouth, his shoulders shook. “That’s why I haven’t seen any codes or symbols. They don’t need them.” Holmes’ voice was rough and rasping as he spoke. 

Watson turned in a circle, scanning the people milling about. They were near a tube station, so it was heavily populated at the moment. “Come with me.” Watson took Holmes by the hand and led him into the crowd. They were bumped and jostled on all sides, but they were both grinning, their eyes only for each other. 

“I love you.” Watson declared out loud. One person turned to look their way, but shrugged and went back to what she was doing. “I love you.” It was louder the second time, drawing more attention. His strong hands went around Holmes’ slim waist, and lifted him into the air. Holmes let out a peal of silent laughter, the tears spilling over his lashes. His long, thin legs locked around Watson’s chest and he grabbed his shoulders for balance. 

Watson spun slowly in place, grinning enormously up at his detective. “Sherlock Holmes, I love you!” He let go, allowing Holmes to drop back down. Reaching up, Watson tangled his fingers into Holmes’ carefully styled hair, and pulled him in for a deep kiss. 

“No one wants to see that!” Shouted someone. 

“I can stand to see a little more!” Called another. 

Watson ignored everyone around them in favour of finally being able to show off his love and devotion to Holmes, openly in his own country. For the first time in more than a decade, his love wasn’t hidden behind carefully strung words on a page. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If you were curious what a union suit is, and what it looks like on Watson:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm nearing the end of this story, but it is not the end of the Kronos Verse series. Meaning I'm still taking suggestions for scenarios you would like to see these four men in!


	6. Worth Any Price

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson finally snaps, and puts John in his place over the proper way to treat his Holmes. Things get heated up when they discuss the risks of loving another man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was so hard for me to write, and I honestly wasn't expecting it to end the way it did. It seems to be my way, to try to soothe pain with porn. 
> 
> John and Watson are comparing their own personal experiences and fears in their fight. It's important to keep that in mind when reading it.   
> There are mentions of past abuse, and allusions to suicidal thoughts as well as a lot of references to past homophobia.

“Just what we needed. Some bloke yelling about how much he loves Sherlock Holmes.” John muttered into a paper cup of steaming coffee. 

They were standing in the gallery of the museum, waiting to be let through the crime scene tape. 

Watson had kept his arms tight around Holmes’ waist for the rest of the walk to the museum, amazed that he could be seen in public like this. They had earned a few dirty looks, but he cheerfully accepted them if it meant he could show his affection. He was the perfectly doting partner until a young woman walked past in a short skirt and a snug blouse. The last few steps up to the scene, Watson rubbed a bruised rib. 

“I’m sure you’ll survive, John.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and tossed his own cup into the bin. “Anyone who heard it would have seen that it wasn’t us.” he gestured to Holmes, who was playing with Watson’s buttons while they stood against the wall. “He doesn’t look that much like me.” 

John followed Sherlock’s gaze, and tugged on his earlobe. “He looks enough like you for it to be surreal. You know, more surreal than this already is.” John jammed one of his hands into his pocket and hunched his shoulders. “His voice is higher, and his lips are thinner, but…” he turned to look up at Sherlock. “Straighten and gel back your hair, and put on some thick soled boots, and you’d look be a dead ringer for him. Why the hell don’t I look like that man?” John’s voice shook as he spoke, and he tightened his hand on his cup. 

“There can be any number of reasons, John.” Sherlock reached out, coming close to placing a hand on John’s arm. He hesitated, flexing his fingers before dropping his hand back to his side. “You have the same stance. Same glare. Same…” Unable to find a proper way to describe it, Sherlock tipped his chin down, and looked out through his lashes in an echo of John’s stern expression. It was a look that could stop insubordinate soldiers in their tracks, silence arguing police constables, or get consulting detectives to pick up their socks. 

It startled a chuckle out of John, and he ducked his head for a moment to school his features. “He’s been shooting that at me since last night.” he mumbled before draining his cup. 

Sherlock watched John, his head tilted to the side in his fascination. Despite the tremor in his hand, and the tension through his shoulders, he seemed to have finally calmed down. He no longer looked like he was going to have a complete meltdown. Sherlock was surprised that the change had begun after Watson’s vocal declaration. 

Before he could delve too deeply into it, a plainclothes officer came over to them. “We’ve got clearance for you and John, but who are these two?”

Holmes approached before Sherlock could introduce them. “Hello, I’m Basil Harris.” He nodded to Watson. “This is James Price.” Watson reached around Holmes to offer his hand. “Mr. Holmes contacted us last night, to consult on the statue.” 

Watson rubbed his thumb over Holmes’ spine through his shirt with a bland smile on his face. “We own a substantial private collection of Greco-Roman statuary.” The lie rolled smoothly off his tongue, pitching his voice a bit deeper, letting his Scotch brogue stand out. “In our garden, there is a near perfect replica of this Kronos statue. Mr. Holmes asked us to come and examine this piece, to see if there are any key differences.” 

“Price studied Art History in school, and I’m an expert on marble.” Holmes added, his own smile just as bland, giving nothing away. “We’re just here to help.” 

The officer chewed on his lip for a moment then nodded, moving aside to let them all pass. 

“Is there anything different about this one, compared to the one in your time?” Sherlock asked, circling the statue. 

Holmes made his own circuit, going the opposite direction. “There were fewer stains.” he murmured, crouching down to look at the spot where he had scraped his hand open. “And it was far less dusty.” Straightening, Holmes laced his fingers together and stretched his arms above his head. “It seems like the staff here is slipping.” 

“They are making changes in the exhibits.” Sherlock explained with a shrug. “It’s understandable that they are negligent to some of them.” 

While they were taking stock of the subtle differences in the statue between the two times, they attracted a small audience of officers and forensic investigators. The group were muttering to each other, shooting glances their way. Holmes flicked his fingers to get Watson’s attention. 

“Go. Flirt.” he ordered under his breath, glancing at those watching them. 

Watson looked over Holmes’ shoulder, touching the man on the side while pursing his lips. “With which one?” he asked softly, pitching his voice low. 

Looking back at the group through his lashes, Holmes wrinkled his nose. “The young woman with the silk scarf. Distract her enough, and the others will carry on their way. We need at least fifteen more minutes.” 

“I’ll give you twenty.” Watson gave him a squeeze and adjusted his waistcoat before strolling over to the officers. He smiled politely to them all, but paid special attention to the young woman Holmes had mentioned. Catlike, with strong features, she was beautiful. Watson inclined his head politely. “Good evening. Are you the inspector in charge of the investigation?” 

“No, I’m just the one that runs the show.” She flashed a quick grin and offered her hand. “PC Donovan,” 

Watson shook it, brushing his thumb over her knuckles. When he let go, it was almost a caress. “Professor James Price,” He wondered where he had plucked the title from, but set the thought aside. “I was surprised to be called in for this. I’ve never heard of a statue being used in a murder.” Several incidents involving small busts or figures being used as bludgeons, but never anything with a full sized statue. Perhaps Holmes had something in his files. Watson made a mental note to ask him when he had a chance. 

“I had one a couple of years ago, but it was just the statue tipped over on the vic. And the body was obviously still there. A bit splattered, but there.” Donovan raised her hand, and Watson turned to see John come over to them. 

“Sherlock sent me away. Apparently I was getting in the way of his genius.” John rolled his eyes. 

Donovan snorted quietly. “Trouble in paradise?” she asked under her breath. When she spoke again, it was a bit louder, letting her voice carry. “Does the Freak have any ideas, yet?” 

“I beg your pardon?” Watson demanded. “What did you just say?” He looked from John, to the woman, and back again. 

John’s shoulders drew up, and his hands tensed at his sides, but he was otherwise silent. Watson glared hard at him until he dropped his gaze to the floor. Before he could stop of himself, Watson took a half step toward John, who stared down at his toes. 

His look sharpened when John still didn’t speak in Sherlock’s defence. Drawing himself to his full height, he glared down at the police constable. “Freak? You call him a  _ freak _ ?” he growled, his cheeks flushing red in his anger. “He is here to assist you in cases you aren’t able to work out on your own, and you punish him for that?”

Donovan returned Watson’s glare with her chin raised in defiance. “We don’t need him.” she snapped. 

“Then why is he here?” It was unclear by now which man Watson was defending, whether it was his beloved Holmes, or the new brilliant detective in his life. “You don’t need to like him, but I will not sit idly by and watch him be disrespected, when he is doing your jobs for you.” 

“Wa- Price. Shut  up .” John muttered, casting furtive little glances around at the audience they were drawing. 

“And you,” Watson whirled on John. “You are his partner. How dare you stand aside and ignore the way they speak about him?”

Snorting, Donovan crossed her arms over her chest. “He has a point, Dr. Watson. Why aren’t you over there holding your boyfriend’s hand and telling him he’s a good boy?” 

“For the last fucking time- No. It won’t be the last time, because no one here seems to listen to me when I say this- He’s not my boyfriend!” The words rang and echoed through the gallery. 

Temper flaring, Watson grabbed John by the elbow and marched him from the group and down the hall. He hoped the layout of the museum was the same as he dragged a fuming John to a public bathroom. Giving him a rough shove, he nearly knocked John to the floor when they were inside. “I won’t tolerate this anymore.” he bit out, pinning John to the far wall. “How dare you stand by while he is being insulted. Have you  _ ever  _ been what he needs?” 

Yanking his shirt back into place after his rough handling, and smoothing down his hair, John shoved Watson away from him and straightened, lifting his chin. He tried to bear down on Watson with a stern look, and gave up after a few seconds when he realised it wasn’t doing anything to phase the man. “We’re not like you!” he grit his teeth, his hands flexing. “I’m not like you. We have the same name, but that’s it. I’m not some reincarnation of you, and I don’t have your…” 

“Inversions?” Watson grabbed John by the front of his shirt and shoved him against the wall again. 

“Your relationship! Sherlock and I are not a couple. We have never been a couple.” 

Letting John go, Watson stepped back and shook his hands as if he was washing them of John. “Of course you’re not. You don’t deserve him.” 

The first punch had been unexpected. It caught him in the edge of his strong jaw, obviously causing John more pain than it did him. Watson caught the second, his large hand enveloping John’s small fist as he twisted his arm. Holding his knee to the back of John’s thigh, Watson pushed him against the sink. He pressed forward against his elbow until John cried out. “Presumably medical training is no worse than it was in my time. You know what will happen if I push harder.” 

Sweat prickling at his forehead and upper lip, John nodded. His face was ashen, and his eyes wide. “Don’t,” His tongue darted over his lip, and he watched Watson through the mirror. 

“Will you try to strike me again?”

“Probably,” John mumbled. 

“I’d rather you didn’t. This is getting tedious.” Watson let John go slowly, making sure he hadn’t damaged his arm. He stepped back a few paces until he could lean against the wall. “Why are you behaving like this? You are in love with him.” 

Wincing as he rolled his shoulder and massaged his scar, John sat on the edge of the vanity. “Please don’t start. I’m not in the mood to get my arse kicked, and be called a poofter in the same five minutes.” 

Watson scrubbed his hands over his face and sucked in a deep breath through his teeth. He stared at the ceiling, and John saw his lips moving as he counted slowly to ten. “I’m assuming that is a new way to insult a man for loving another man.” he muttered, his hands still pressed to his forehead, face tilted up. 

John stared at the floor, feeling like he had just disappointed a commanding officer. “For wanting to sleep with another man.” he corrected quietly, rubbing one of his hands over his forearm. Shaking himself, he lifted his head again. “It’s not like you think. You’ve only been here a day. It’s not all acceptance, and people applauding you when you snog on the streets. My sister’s gay. I saw how bad it was for her. The insults. My… Our Da…” 

Dropping his hands to his sides, Watson rolled his eyes. “So you’re just a coward.”

“Don’t! You don’t understand what it’s like! My sister’s a drunk because of the shit she went through growing up. The first time I got caught looking at another bloke, I got a belt.” 

“Loving him could get me arrested.” Watson shouted, stabbing a finger towards the door, back where they had left Holmes and Sherlock. “You got a belt? If anyone we didn’t trust completely learned of our relationship, we would have been arrested. You are afraid of being insulted in the streets. I am terrified of us being dragged through them in bracelets. Like… Like we were pederasts. 

“Someone might call you a filthy name. John, there isn’t even a word for what I am in my time! You have all of these words, and titles, and opportunities available to you. Do you know how much I would have loved to receive nothing but a smack with a belt? My father sent me to Australia when he suspected that I was a sodomite. Holmes still has scars from his father. He-” The words choked him. Watson advanced on John and slammed his hand down on the vanity beside his leg. “I almost lost him before I found him, because of his treatment.”

The remaining colour drained from John’s face. 

“If we were arrested, we would have been worked to death. Do you understand that, John? You’re afraid of having your reputation tarnished. I risked death every day, because I love him. Because I want to deserve him. So yes. I will look you in the eyes and call you a coward.” 

“Is-” John coughed into his fist to clear the hard lump from his throat. “Is it really worth it?” he finished timidly. 

Licking his lips, Watson stooped over the sink and scrubbed his flushed face. He dried it with a handful of paper towels and moved back towards the door. His voice was calm and collected when he spoke again. “Follow me, John.” 

John wasn’t able to disobey the cool tone. He hopped down from the vanity and trotted to catch up with Watson. Silent as he was led through a few back corridors and up along a set of steps, John followed the other man up to the balcony overlooking the gallery. Below them, Holmes and Sherlock were standing close near the statue. 

“Look at him.” Watson guided John to the railing and stood behind him. “Look at him, John. Tell me he’s not worth any risk.” 

Sherlock was burrowed into the folds of his coat, nearly lost in the heavy cloth. Holmes was running his hands up and down over his arms, and John could see that he was whispering comforting words to him. His eyes were bright, and he tried to give Holmes a weak smile. 

“When I first met him, he was so lost.” Watson rested his hands on John’s hips. “Like a desperate puppy. He practically wagged the first time I praised him.” His lips were against John’s ear as he spoke. “Little more than a boy, really.” 

“Looked about twelve. Like he should be in his public school togs, wearing a cap.” John breathed, remembering the first time he had seen Sherlock. How that lost little boy had looked up at him from behind the safety of a glass pipette, his pale eyes searching. 

“Like he had been waiting, just for you. We went around the world, John.” Watson slid his hand up the man’s chest until he could cup the entry wound of his gunshot. His fingers walked over the scar through his shirt, feeling the badly healed clavicle. “We could have died out there in the dirt, but we couldn’t. Because he needed us.” 

John began to turn his head, but Watson gripped him by the hair, keeping his eyes on the men down in the gallery. His thumb rubbed the nape of his neck in slow circles, working at the knots. “No. Look at him. This is about him.” 

Giving a jerky nod, and moaning when it tugged at his hair, John gripped the railing in white knuckled hands. “I needed him.” he whispered. 

“We did,” Watson nodded in agreement. “We were broken, and alone, and ready to give up. He saved us.” A warm, rich chuckle rolled through Watson, rising up from his deep chest. “He gave us a home, and a career, and a life. He drives us mad, and sometimes pushes us to the edge, but it’s worth every moment of frustration.” 

Moving to John’s other ear, Watson lipped at the lobe. “Have you ever been with a woman that thrilled you like him?” John stiffened. “Look down at him, John. Those curls. Picture them bouncing when he’s on you. Imagine his brilliant eyes looking up at you from his pillow. I envy you his full lips. The way they would look stretching around your staff.” 

John’s adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed thickly and sagged back in Watson’s tight hold. His breathing was hoarse and shaking. He bit down hard on his lip to muffle the small moan that escaped him. 

“They can’t hear us from down there, John. They aren’t even looking our way. Are you still trying to hide?” With a smirk against John’s ear, Watson moved his hand down to tease at the waistband of his jeans. “Because you are doing a terrible job of it.” He cupped John’s erection through the denim, rolling the callused pad of his thumb over the the head. 

Pressing his knuckles to his mouth, John bucked up against the hand holding him. He reached back and tangled his hand into Watson’s hair, knocking his cap to the floor. 

“You want him.” 

“Fuck, I want him. I’ve always wanted him.” John leaned his head back on Watson’s shoulder, bracing one foot on the railing to give him leverage. “Of course you fucking knew that.” 

When Watson tugged open his belt and flies, John’s knee nearly buckled. It had been seven years since another man had touched him. A drunken fumbling while on leave with a soldier he never laid eyes on again. It was nothing like this. Expert fingers knew exactly where to touch, and how much pressure was needed. Two fingers darted around the base of his cock, then dragged up. 

A fist around the head, and a palm clapped over his mouth, and it only took a half dozen firm strokes. John clawed at the back of Watson’s neck, his foot skittering along the bar on the railing. With his mouth covered, he gasped to get enough air through his nose. Semen splashed over Watson’s hand, striking the railing. A few thick drops spattered onto the glass display directly below them in the gallery. 

Through it all, John didn’t take his eyes off of Sherlock. 


End file.
